The rise in ayahuasca tourism is colonising wellness

As Peruvian archaeologist Ruben Orellana argues, this gets to the root of an issue many aren’t willing to address in the context of ayahuasca tourism – cultural appropriation.

The traditional rituals Meikle refers to were developed within particular cultural contexts for Indigenous peoples. ‘Without context,’ says Orellana, ‘non-Indigenous seekers can veer into the territory of cultural appropriation at best, while also exposing themselves to the mental and physical health risks of the psychedelic brew.’

Critics also note that many of the ‘lodges’ built to house visitors are not owned by locals, and the influx of tourists has had a negative effect on the ecosystem of the area – ironic given the intended usage of ayahuasca to impart harmony with the natural world.

With many local communities unable to compete with outsider-owned retreat centers, traditional healers are economically sidelined or forced to commercialize practices that were never intended for mass consumption.

Worse still, the influx of tourists often destabilizes local economies and social structures. Many Shipibo leaders have expressed alarm over the dilution of their cultural practices and the exploitation of their spiritual traditions.

I did it! I tried some Ayahuasca in the Amazon Jungle, Peru Would you try it? #thepopishow pic.twitter.com/ZYs4a7DcG8

— The Popi Show | Travel (@popi_sibiya) October 20, 2024

Some have even left their ancestral lands to work in foreign-owned ayahuasca centers where the rituals are hollowed out, repackaged, and sold for thousands of dollars per ceremony.

But this is the logical outcome of a system that treats Indigenous knowledge as an open-access resource rather than protected intellectual and spiritual property.

The deeper question – and one the wellness industry is reluctant to confront – is whether it is possible to decolonize practices that were never meant for capitalist exchange. The pursuit of ‘authentic’ or ‘ancestral’ healing by Westerners often masks an uncomfortable reality: that this pursuit mirrors the same extractive processes that underpin colonial histories.

Even well-meaning facilitators often perpetuate harm. On Reddit, a lengthy discussion about the ethics of working with ayahuasca surfaces a key tension: Is it enough to offer land acknowledgment, donate to Indigenous causes, or hire a Shipibo healer if the very premise of ayahuasca tourism undermines Indigenous autonomy?

There are, of course, initiatives that attempt to redirect profits back to Indigenous communities. Some retreat centres are Indigenous-owned, and some Western facilitators collaborate closely with local groups. But these examples are the exception, not the rule.

Even when reciprocity is attempted, it is often shaped by Western frameworks of charity rather than justice.

If the wellness industry wants to reckon with the harm it perpetuates, it must confront a hard truth: not everything is meant to be shared. And this requires more than land acknowledgments or profit-sharing. It demands the recognition of Indigenous sovereignty over their own spiritual practices, including the right to refuse their commodification.